tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86059554680754190412018-03-06T18:40:45.547-05:00all i can say is this:(thoughts and stories from a girl still searching for the right words.)Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-84972251953233227112013-01-10T21:55:00.002-05:002013-01-10T21:55:34.551-05:00one last note to my fallen (read: risen) hero.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> 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gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dyWFFFnY9Nw/UO96jzWU3WI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/DHkjkJbAPlo/s1600/other+dad0010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dyWFFFnY9Nw/UO96jzWU3WI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/DHkjkJbAPlo/s320/other+dad0010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Good Morning everyone. On behalf of my mom Kathy, my brothers Joe and Chris and my sister Maria, my grandparents Connie and Joe, my aunt and uncles Paul, Mark, Mary Ann and Steven, and everyone else in the extended Gallant and Fougere families, I want to thank you all so much for being here to help celebrate the life of the greatest man I’ve ever known. The love and support you have all shown us over these trying days has been nothing short of incredible, and if I know my Dad at all, I know he’s up there taking careful notes on everyone to whom he now owes favors.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"I’d like to take the time now to say a few words about our father and I thought the best way to do it might be to start from the beginning and tell you all a condensed version of his story, the way I have always known it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-leqWpSRgRcU/UO99YW-yvsI/AAAAAAAAARQ/f4pDQ4Zgphg/s1600/other+dad0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-leqWpSRgRcU/UO99YW-yvsI/AAAAAAAAARQ/f4pDQ4Zgphg/s320/other+dad0008.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"On October 15<sup>th</sup>, 1956, in the city of Chelsea, MA, our Nana and Gramps welcomed their first child into this world, a little baby boy. And like the generations of first Gallant sons that came before him, they named him Joseph, but agreed upon the common shortened form “Peter” for everyday use. Our dad grew up on the North Shore in the city of Revere, and like all little boys, he brought an abundance of joy and an endless supply of stress to our grandparents’ lives. There was a story we have often been told of the time our dad decided he was bored and wanted to stir up some trouble in his house by disguising himself and pretending to steal a bike out of his own backyard. Upon hearing the ruckus outside the house, Uncle Paul looked out the window and yelled to Gramps that someone was out there stealing the bikes. Gramps immediately went outside and saw what he thought was some hooded punk taking bikes from out of the yard. He began to yell at the kid in not so many words to kindly put the bike down and get away from his house, and instead of fessing up to the joke and giving himself away, Dad decided to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>simply make a run for it. He hopped on the bike and rode away as fast as he could with Gramps chasing after him, yelling all sorts of colorful language as he tried so hard to get his kids’ bike back from whatever ne’er-do-well stole it out of the yard. At no point in this episode did our father stop and reveal himself, not even after Gramps tore his Achilles tendon in the pursuit. He just kept riding, all the way to the home of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> Nana, where she welcomed him in with open arms and, most likely, a plate of macaroni, roast beef, and gravy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--wBzvcvs4wk/UO99j1N_6ZI/AAAAAAAAARY/_qq2dbMSR_U/s1600/other+dad0023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--wBzvcvs4wk/UO99j1N_6ZI/AAAAAAAAARY/_qq2dbMSR_U/s320/other+dad0023.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"As Dad grew over the years, so did the family at 88 Beach Street. He became the loving oldest brother to my Uncle Paul, my Uncle Mark, my Auntie Mary Ann, and my Uncle Steven. He fit that role so well and would often recount the evening he sat in a rocking chair in our grandparents’ living room talking to Auntie’s date, steadily rocking back and forth, fulfilling his brotherly duties by giving the poor guy a death stare and doing what he could to intimidate him. And even as the chair broke and slowly tipped over sideways and he ended up on the floor, he continued to grill the kid about where they were going, what they would be doing, and what time my aunt was expected back home.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hghsCyPRYgM/UO994yLxxVI/AAAAAAAAARg/hazz_bYH_zM/s1600/dad0059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hghsCyPRYgM/UO994yLxxVI/AAAAAAAAARg/hazz_bYH_zM/s320/dad0059.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Dad attended Malden Catholic High School, where he became a phenomenal football player. He then attended UMass Amherst and, like many UMass freshmen, lived in a dorm room in Central that Nana still to this day compares to a prison cell. He earned a walk-on spot on the UMass football team, but somehow managed to absolutely destroy his shoulder during practice and never actually saw any playing time. So one day, in true Peter fashion, he boarded a Boston-bound protest bus and made his way to the admissions office at Northeastern University, where he soon started over as a student in the school of criminal justice and began to answer his calling to a life in public service. It turned out that getting on that bus was probably the best decision he ever made—his co-op experience as a summer special led him to his very first years of police work in the Nantucket Police Department, where he met fellow Officer Kathy Fougere, the love of his life, our mother. Dad married Mom on November 1<sup>st</sup>, 1985, and soon after this they settled down and planted their roots in the greatest town on earth, the city of Boston. Dad began an honorable 23-year career in the Boston Police Department, while mom somehow found a way to balance a full-time job and life in general with four crazy, beautiful children who were always vying for every last fiber of her attention and sanity.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cDuGdq7yOhI/UO9-FMu8JaI/AAAAAAAAARo/FLppkpHinN0/s1600/dad0063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cDuGdq7yOhI/UO9-FMu8JaI/AAAAAAAAARo/FLppkpHinN0/s320/dad0063.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"In light of recent national tragedies, there is a Mr. Rogers quote gone viral reminding us all that we should always look for the helpers. Dad was a helper through and through, and that was what made him so phenomenal at his job. His life was his work, his work was his life, and he had a way of so gracefully combining his world at home and his world on the police force so that they always complimented each other, without ever letting one get into the way of the other. I’m sure each one of us kids has a memory of watching the five o’clock news and hearing another scary story about another bad guy somewhere in the city, but resting easy because we knew if nothing else, our Dad would find him and get him off the streets and the entire city, or at least the other five of us at home with him, could once again sleep soundly under his protective watch. He never failed to come to the aid of anyone who needed him, be it family, friend, acquaintance, or stranger, and would at times be highly offended if he was not the first one called to help take care of any situation, no matter what the nature or size. His job was to protect his city, but his compassion and caring nature as a husband, father, brother and son gave him the ability to console that city as well.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Xv2U3pwM2g/UO9-S3iibKI/AAAAAAAAAR0/qZ-F-vCPkEA/s1600/dad0050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Xv2U3pwM2g/UO9-S3iibKI/AAAAAAAAAR0/qZ-F-vCPkEA/s320/dad0050.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"In a moment of selfishness the other morning, I found myself infuriated, asking God why it had to be him, why our dad, husband, brother and son had to be taken from us. It did not take long for God to answer me. The world we live in today is far from perfect—it is confusing, chaotic, and at times just downright scary for all of us. Looking out at all of you today, there is no doubt he touched countless lives while he was here on earth, but God needed to bring our Dad to be with Him, where he can now do the most good for the greatest number of people, where he can wrap himself around everyone at once and shield them from the all the sorrow, hatred and despair that exists outside these walls, where he can bring light and love to anyone in need, where he can rescue everyone from the bad guys the way he rescued all of us for so long. And as I stand here before all of you, I can almost guarantee he is sitting in his easy chair in the clouds, cigar in his mouth, Fox News on TV, a plate of greasy Chinese food on one side and his Nana’s macaroni, roast beef, and gravy on the other, waiting for the next chance to comfort yet another troubled soul.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pfVX5Eud_wY/UO9-tDNwEXI/AAAAAAAAAR8/joCml2Xb_5Y/s1600/dad0038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pfVX5Eud_wY/UO9-tDNwEXI/AAAAAAAAAR8/joCml2Xb_5Y/s320/dad0038.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"I cannot imagine trying to live life without my Dad by my side. And I guess I am very lucky in that I will never have to know what it would be like to even try. His body may be leaving us, but he exists within every person he has ever served over his lifetime. All I have to do is look at my siblings and I see him shining outward from each and every one of them. I see him in Joe’s ability to calmly step up and take control in any crisis. I see him in Chris’ willingness to come to the aid of anyone who needs it, asking no questions and passing no judgment. And I see him in Maria’s contagious laughter and the way she can brighten the darkest rooms and bring smiles to the saddest faces. As for me, I can only hope I am able to be half as strong a support for my family as he always was for all of us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ekk7l_V3PD4/UO9-50rxXgI/AAAAAAAAASI/crSD6Hu6KrM/s1600/dad0044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ekk7l_V3PD4/UO9-50rxXgI/AAAAAAAAASI/crSD6Hu6KrM/s320/dad0044.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"His life was too short, but his story is so long, and his legacy will be everlasting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"Joe, Peter, Detective Gallant, Dad—enjoy your rest. May God hold you the way you held us all your whole life. We love you, we miss you, and we’ll see you soon."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SXKAkXS_lsY/UO9--xVuuWI/AAAAAAAAASQ/B7tnnfAXmmI/s1600/other+dad0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SXKAkXS_lsY/UO9--xVuuWI/AAAAAAAAASQ/B7tnnfAXmmI/s320/other+dad0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-79371859126883121992012-05-07T19:56:00.001-04:002012-05-07T20:07:08.501-04:00it makes me crazy that i'm drawing inspiration from taylor freakin' swiftof all people, but she sings a ridiculously chipper and unfortunately catchy song about things that shine and I can't get it out of my head.<br /><br />I can't even begin to tell you the number of times in life that people have told me to do what makes me happy. We all go through it. Before we're shoved out of childhood and into young adulthood, it's the number one piece of advice anyone will give us. <i>"Follow your dreams. Listen to your heart. Reach for the stars. <b>Do what makes you happy.</b>"</i><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SGnHE_s9iLM/T6hgom3WbXI/AAAAAAAAAP8/6KjA522Z0vU/s1600/happy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SGnHE_s9iLM/T6hgom3WbXI/AAAAAAAAAP8/6KjA522Z0vU/s1600/happy.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br />Lately, for whatever reason, I can't seem to get away from people who are concerned about my happiness. Yes, it's great to know I have people looking out for me. And yes, I know I'm blessed to have that kind of care and concern in my life. But when the casual <i>"and how are things going for you these days?"</i> turns into an interrogation about the choices I make and the things that are actually making me happy, I start to feel a little less blessed and a little more ticked off. Not at the person asking, but more at myself. <br /><br />Here's the problem: I'm turning into someone I don't like to convince everyone else that I'm doing alright. And I'd love to know at what point in my life I decided that I had to live by any definition of happiness other than my own. I'd love to know when I decided it was important to convince anyone else other than myself that I'm happy where I am, the way the things are.<br /><br />Seriously. Where did that come from? Why do any of us ever try to change what we do for the sake of what other people think? Doesn't Dr. Seuss teach us all at the age of 5 to be who we are and say what we feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind?<br /><br />As of this moment, I'm officially done pretending, done trying to play a part that I just don't fit. I'm done listening to what everyone else tells me I should do or how everyone else tells me I should feel, because I can't afford to do anymore damage than I already have.<br /><br />I have a good thing going right now. I don't need anything more and I certainly don't need to change who I am.&nbsp; I'm happier than I ever have been, and I'd like to keep it that way.<br /><br />At the end of the day, the only person who really knows what you need is yourself. God love her, Tay Swift has a point. The stakes are high and the water's rough, but this love, this life, this happiness, this whatever belongs to you and you alone. And if people wanna throw rocks at it? Just say f*ck 'em.<br /><br />No need to keep worrying your pretty little mind. :)Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-33905362143122261542012-05-01T15:02:00.000-04:002012-05-01T15:06:33.413-04:00"you're welcome to come over and bitch about it all whenever you want,"she tells me as we leave her screened-in porch. "Because I'm telling you, the next year of your life is going to be <b>hell</b>."<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z8S1Mysp6B8/T6AzKkEuJ9I/AAAAAAAAAPw/g3Mlmlj8x2o/s1600/536544_1852937163174_1233120528_31971889_147160801_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z8S1Mysp6B8/T6AzKkEuJ9I/AAAAAAAAAPw/g3Mlmlj8x2o/s320/536544_1852937163174_1233120528_31971889_147160801_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br />And as I say goodbye, get in my car and drive back towards 495, it sets in. It's finally happening, I've finally been given the chance to get out of the what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life-now rut that I've been stuck in since May 15th, 2010. I'll be starting nursing school in four months. And working full-time. And trying to keep the little bits of my life that aren't already consumed by work intact.<br /><br />Yes, indeed, the next year of my life is going to be hell. The worst part about that statement is that right now, I feel like I only barely have a hold on my life and my sanity as it is.<br /><br />So then I start thinking: what's changed? Where did I mess up? Things are falling into place. I have a plan. I finally have a purpose. So... why do I feel more lost now than I did two years ago, when I had no idea what my next move was going to be?<br /><br />And it hits me. Maybe it's because I stopped writing.<br /><br />Anyone who knows me knows that speaking up is not my greatest strength. I surround myself with people who are loud and extroverted because I admire their ability to do what I just haven't figured out how to do yet. I have a lot to say, but I have no idea how to say it.<br /><br />The purpose of this stupid overly-pink blog has always been to give me a place to process the millions of things that go through my mind every second; a place to speak without speaking, to share with everyone around me all the things I want to say to them instead of burying it all inside until I find myself doing <strike>clinically troubling</strike> totally emotionally stable things like driving 2 hours to Sandwich in the middle of February to sit on the beach for 5 minutes and get a coffee from Mary Lou's because I just need to take a break from existing for a while. My Honda has been in poor health lately and just can't keep taking on that kind of responsibility.<br /><br />I forgot about this thing for so long. Which is really too bad, because as I look through some of the old entries, I'm realizing that the <a href="http://allicansayisthis.blogspot.com/2010/03/objective-to-figure-out-my-new.html" target="_blank">things I write</a> say <a href="http://allicansayisthis.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-last-goodbye-front-gate.html" target="_blank">more about me</a> and about <a href="http://allicansayisthis.blogspot.com/2010/03/im-just-waiting-for-sun.html" target="_blank">who I am</a> than I've ever been able <a href="http://allicansayisthis.blogspot.com/2010/07/eight-thousand-and-thirty-days-worth-of.html" target="_blank">to say about myself</a>.<br /><br />Big changes are coming. Big steps, big moves. And for the sake of my mental health, I can't afford to keep going through life without telling people what's really going on. Will I take up the offer to sit on a screened-in porch and bitch about it all? Most likely yes. But for the times I can't do that, I need somewhere else to go to let it all out.<br /><br />Watch out, friends. I'm back. I have a lot I need to say. And you're all about to get an earful of it.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-1703964964198063692010-08-02T20:51:00.000-04:002010-08-02T20:51:36.369-04:00about 174 days a year, you tell me you couldn't give a sh*t less about what i think.But I've known you for 22 years. I can see right through you. And I know that statement is a lie. I know that what I think really means everything to you.<br /><br />What I can see is that something's got a hold of you. I don't know what it is, but it has been eating you away from the inside out for the latter half of my life. It's taking over your actions, your words, your emotions, your entire being. Whatever it is has been slowly tearing you away from me, to the point where you need to stop at the liquor store to find something to numb the pain before you can even set foot in the house after work. This thing has you thinking that it's not as worth being there for me as it is worth being there for the people in your office or for the benefit of a few lab results at the doctor's.<br /><br />As a 12 year old, I spent almost a month being terrified to speak to you because I knew that whatever I said, the conversation would always end with you yelling at me for being a bad student. But we reconciled, and I thought maybe I had you back as long as I tried harder to be a better kid. As a 15 year old, I cried as you called my little brothers liars and told me I was just the same for defending them. But I told you how much it hurt to hear you say that about your own kids, and I thought maybe I had you back as long as I kept my mouth shut. As a 17 year old, I gave my boyfriend many embarrassed goodbyes and asked my mom what&nbsp; kind of girl you thought I was after you would yell at us for being alone together in the living room at 9 PM. By then I had already learned that nothing I could do would bring you back; instead, I just think a little more before inviting people over anytime after 5 because I know at least a third of the bottle will already be gone by then, and I'd rather keep up the charade that we're all happy and full of rainbows than try to explain anything to any outside audiences. Today, at 22, I still don't bring guys home, my stomach still knots up and my face cringes at how you might react if I tell you I found a leak earlier in the bathroom sink, I still apologize multiple times or even cry myself to sleep if I think I've done something to make my parents' lives more inconvenient than they already are--whether it's forgetting to take pizza dough out of the fridge or not cleaning up well enough after my brother throws a party or not getting more financial aid for school. Today I find myself looking at my baby sister and hoping she doesn't have to feel this same way ten years from now, while hating myself a little because I can't be as strong a person for her to lean on right now as I wish I could be. Today I find myself looking at you and wanting you to tell me where I went wrong, what I could have done to fix it, how I can get you back.<br /><br />Look, while it doesn't help that you still feel like you need to drown me and the rest of the world out with a bottle and a half of white wine every day, I know I can't pin all my broken pieces on that. I have some huge problems--problems that are exacerbated by but run a little deeper than helplessly watching alcoholism take over the life of the only man I could ever love this much. These are problems I have had for a very long time, and it wasn't easy for me to finally admit to someone that they were there. So yeah, even though you say you don't give a sh*t less about what I think, I get how this feels. We are constantly taught that we all make mistakes, we all have our own strengths and weaknesses. But really, nobody wants to voluntarily point out their weak spots. Nobody wants to readily admit that they can't do it all. It takes an unbelievable amount of strength, willpower, and self-confidence.<br /><br />Only the strongest people can admit that sometimes, they need help too.<br /><br />You once told me that you would do whatever you needed to do to make sure I was safe and happy. I know that deep down, this is still true. Whatever happens now, however many times you continue to tell me my feelings are not worth it, please don't ever forget that you have always been and always will be my Superman.<br /><br />Please, Superman, this is when I need you to be the strongest man in the world. Maybe I'm being selfish, but I need you to ask for help.<br /><br />I need you to save yourself, so that you can save me.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-14520231550566502742010-07-08T23:53:00.000-04:002010-07-08T23:53:09.894-04:00eight thousand and thirty days' worth of blessed.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaa03TcLhI/AAAAAAAAAMA/gtcmBlaqf9Q/s1600/jenn10.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaa03TcLhI/AAAAAAAAAMA/gtcmBlaqf9Q/s200/jenn10.bmp" width="200" /></a>"My vision is going," I sigh into the phone. "And my hearing. And all my joints are starting to hurt. And I get tired more easily. And when Maria is the same age as I am right now, I will be 32 and maybe even hanging out with MY KIDS. And now mom is giving me dirty looks."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My father laughs at me on the other end of the line.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaZf04wtpI/AAAAAAAAALY/lFQOtOvBJcM/s1600/jenn2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaZf04wtpI/AAAAAAAAALY/lFQOtOvBJcM/s200/jenn2.bmp" width="200" /></a>"That's because you don't even know the half of it. Wait another 30 years til you're 52 or 53 like us. Then come talk to me about it. Where you are right now is the best part of your life."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As of 9:35 this morning, I have been living on this earth for 22 years. Eight thousand and thirty days. I've blown out 253 candles and grown 67 inches. I've completed&nbsp;16 years of school.&nbsp;I've come a long way from the 7 lb. 6 oz. 20-something inch pink bundle that I was 22 years ago.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaZmAfQ05I/AAAAAAAAALg/R7tmWeZfHx4/s1600/jenn4.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" rw="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaZmAfQ05I/AAAAAAAAALg/R7tmWeZfHx4/s200/jenn4.bmp" width="150" /></a>Sometimes we all go through periods of time that just really....well, really suck. I won't get into details, but I would not be lying to you if I said that 48 hours ago, I was sitting on my kitchen floor, unable to stand up,&nbsp;completely broken, feeling unloved, wondering if I would be okay. I would not be lying if I told you I felt like my world was crashing down on me, like life had stabbed me in the back, like I was paralyzed and could not move at all. I would not be lying if I told you that 48 hours ago, the only thing I wanted was to fall asleep on July 7, 2010 and wake up in the nursery at Newton-Wellesley Hospital on July 8, 1988, back at the beginning, safe with the knowledge that I was like an infant version of George Bailey and the 22 years I thought I had been living this whole time were only my guardian angel's way of showing me what awful things&nbsp;could happen to me and my family&nbsp;if I didn't&nbsp;live my 22 years&nbsp;exactly&nbsp;the right way. But I think that's a story that only works in old Christmas movies.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDabChchEcI/AAAAAAAAAMI/leTu6NGXbts/s1600/jenn9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDabChchEcI/AAAAAAAAAMI/leTu6NGXbts/s200/jenn9.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">What God gave me instead was this&nbsp;morning,&nbsp;July 8, 2010, the morning I woke up and realized that no matter what, I can and will be okay. The morning I woke up and&nbsp;realized that no matter what, I am loved. He gave me a day full of sunshine and laughter and hope for whatever lies ahead of me. He gave me&nbsp;families and friendships made out of the greatest people on this earth, hands down.&nbsp;He gave me the realization that the past 22 years have been the best years I could have asked for, and that I am truly lucky to have lived each and every single one of them.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDabpA7nyaI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/xJMUVz-JI1I/s1600/jenn11.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDabpA7nyaI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/xJMUVz-JI1I/s200/jenn11.bmp" width="200" /></a>My father is right. This is the best time of my life. I'm not old, just growing up. This is only the beginning. I have a long way left to go, I know that.&nbsp;But if the rest of my years could possibly go as well as the past 22 have, then I guess I will be the luckiest girl I know, because in the 22 years already under my belt I have&nbsp;been&nbsp;so blessed. Eight thousand and thirty days' worth of blessed.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">That is the single best birthday present I could have ever asked for.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaar0H7hjI/AAAAAAAAAL4/ilUK2mv2TVc/s1600/jenn1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TDaar0H7hjI/AAAAAAAAAL4/ilUK2mv2TVc/s320/jenn1.bmp" /></a></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-36950834321797303332010-07-01T23:31:00.001-04:002010-07-01T23:35:09.438-04:00the train is crowded for 9 pm on a tuesday.I sit in my seat next to the left-side door, looking down most of the time, being careful not to make eye contact with anyone around me so as not to have an awkward moment. At each stop, the car fills up a little more: a man with rap music&nbsp;blaring from the earbuds stuffed in his ear at Stonybrook, a woman talking loudly on the phone in&nbsp;Cantonese at Jackson Square, a group of college girls from Northeastern&nbsp;at Ruggles. Each new person to walk on keeps to himself or to the group he came with. Nobody interacts with each other except for an occasional "excuse me."<br /><br />Like it or not, we have been trained in this day and age to think that a friendly "Hello" is a thing of a Pleasantville past. We are told from a young age to mind our own business, to&nbsp;be wary of strangers, to keep a tight hold of our possessions, to not let our guard down and be 110% sure of our surroundings at all times&nbsp;in an effort to&nbsp;prevent an unwanted hand from invading our personal bubble and wreaking havoc. We are brought up to automatically assume that aside from most immediate family members, the only person you can really trust in the&nbsp;outside world&nbsp;is yourself. Who knows who might have ulterior motives? An act of kindness could be a theif's key to your wallet, or the hand that invites a sex offender's touch.<br /><br />So&nbsp;I sit on the Orange Line, making my way to State Street on a late weekday evening, silently processing&nbsp;my own throughts, keeping&nbsp;my head down and&nbsp;my eyes away from anyone who might be looking for them.<br /><br />My silence is shaken up when a group of three friends make their way onto the train at Mass. Ave. They are an eclectic mish-mash of a group: an older Hispanic man, a heavyset black woman with a cane, and a thirty-something blonde woman with a long denim skirt and a top I've seen and wanted so badly to buy&nbsp;while window shopping. They are carrying three garbage bags that seem to be full of clothes and a few smaller items.&nbsp;Without saying a word, the&nbsp;person originally sitting across from me gets up so the woman with the cane can have her seen. Denim Skirt Lady sits next to her, and the older man stays standing.<br /><br />"You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette on you, would you?" Cane Lady asks Denim Skirt Lady after they settle into their seats.<br />"Of course!" Denim Skirt Lady says as she pulls a box of Marlborough Lights out of her bag. "Take whatever's left. I don't need 'em. Would you like one?" she asks Old Guy, who says he's all set.<br />"Quit 'em three years ago," he adds proudly.<br />"Oooh, good for you!" Denim Skirt Lady says, visibly impressed. "Wish I could put them down too!"<br />"Like everything else," adds Cane Lady, "usually you don't&nbsp;really know&nbsp;how bad they are for you until it's too late."<br />Denim Skirt Lady and Old Guy agree.<br /><br />The group gets talking about their jobs, their history in this city, where they're headed and what they did all day. They joke around with each other like all good friends do, laughing and calling each other out on every slip-up one makes.<br /><br />I hear snippets of what they say to each other. Old Guy sometimes has a solid amount of odd jobs, Denim Skirt Lady works for an agency that collaborates with the Boston Housing Authority. In the midst of the conversation, one thing becomes clear: Cane Lady doesn't have a permanent address. The clothes in the bag are hers to carry around everywhere as she bounces from room to room, place to place, shelter to shelter. Old Guy is there to lend a hand, to help carry her things and to&nbsp;make sure she's set up alright for at least a little while.<br /><br />As the train pulls past Downtown Crossing and rumbles towards State Street, Cane Lady pulls a blank envelope out of her purse. Denim Skirt Lady hands her a pen and recites a telephone number.<br />"That's my work number. Just give me a call anytime before 5 and I should be there. It's extension 32, but you can also just give them my name and they'll redirect you to my phone," she says as Cane Lady quickly writes down all this information, then recites it back to verify.<br />"Got it," Cane Lady says. "I'll give you a call tomorrow. And--I'm sorry, I feel silly asking now--what is your name?"<br />Denim Skirt Lady smiles and holds out her hand. "I'm Janine. What's your name?"<br />"I'm Vanessa, and this is Tommy."<br />Janine shakes hands with Vanessa and Tommy as I leave the train and go back to walking with my head down, my eyes more&nbsp;focused on my destination than anything else.<br /><br />But I can't help but pray that maybe Janine's friendly&nbsp;smile in a dark subway station paid off.<br />That maybe, because these three new friends were willing to let their guards down, Vanessa might finally find somewhere to call home.<br /><br />I guess it's kind of amazing what a simple "Hello" can really do. Imagine what this world could be like if we were all a little more willing to share one with one another.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TC1dMJjTfdI/AAAAAAAAALA/yZfGyYKfrck/s1600/smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/TC1dMJjTfdI/AAAAAAAAALA/yZfGyYKfrck/s320/smile.jpg" /></a></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-31747841919436896472010-05-21T12:54:00.002-04:002010-05-21T13:00:05.680-04:00every day i find another gray hair on my head.Maybe it was the stress of graduation, but my brand-new Bachelor of Arts degree in Biology leaves me more likely to believe that the real reason is because my genetic blueprint has me set to&nbsp;start showing this sign of&nbsp;growing up&nbsp;somewhere in my early twenties. I'll be 22 in a little over a month.<br /><br />All week, Nicki and I have been texting non-stop. I was the first to get a "big girl job" offer for a teaching position; she was the first to actually start a "big girl job" as a long-term sub. <br /><br /><em>"i got drooled on so much today...but got tater tots. why is this job so 50/50"<br />"i feel like 50/50 is the theme of the real world"</em><br /><em>"life at leitrims was just so much easier."</em><br /><br />Meanwhile, Kim has started&nbsp;"big girl apartment"-hunting&nbsp;for her year in graduate school, looking to live in a place where the main decor on the living room walls is not a&nbsp;wrap-around of side panels from cases and 6-packs of beer, but maybe something a bit classier. Although she was living with us, Becca has been in&nbsp;a "big girl job" since February, where she will continue to be until she moves to New Mexico. And&nbsp;while she technically has yet to really&nbsp;say goodbye to her undergrad experience at Assumption, August will be here soon enough, at which point Maggie will have to be a "big girl volunteer" on her own in Houston.<br /><br />We're not old by any stretch of the word. We're babies, just finally becoming real people with real purposes making real contributions to society. Little baby adults.<br /><br />Adults. Grown ups. People who must now make the neccessary moves to be on their own.<br /><br />This becomes clear to me sitting in Starbucks on a Thursday afternoon with Liz, who has also recently found herself with a Bachelor's&nbsp;degree from UMass&nbsp;to her name, a little unsure of what is supposed to happen next in this new chapter of our lives titled "Adulthood: The Early Years." Maybe she doesn't know where exactly she's supposed to go, but she tells me the one thing&nbsp;she does know for sure is&nbsp;that she is outgrowing the bedroom she still shares with her younger brother.<br /><br />As we finish our iced teas and discussions of what post-college life&nbsp;holds for both of us, she leans in to ask me something in secret:<br /><br /><em>"The lady by the door, in the pink shirt, with the long black hair...is that or is that not my 7th grade Earth Science teacher?"</em><br /><em>"Yeah...Yeah, that's definitely her. Wierd. How many years has it been since then? 6 at Latin, 4 in college...that's TEN YEARS. A full decade."</em><br /><br />When we're back outside, she argues my calculation.<br /><br /><em>"7th grade was the 2000-2001 school year. We haven't quite&nbsp;hit 2010-2011&nbsp; yet. It's really&nbsp;only been 9 years."</em><br /><br />And with that, we continue on into adulthood and the real world, holding&nbsp;on tightly to&nbsp;that one-year difference as if it will let us stay in the blissful days of childhood just a little while&nbsp;longer.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-23659656360687087452010-05-15T23:02:00.000-04:002010-05-17T11:58:08.264-04:00my last goodbye: the front gate.Dear Front Gate,<br /><br />Today I&nbsp;drove by you, pulled off of campus and took a left onto Salisbury&nbsp;St.&nbsp;for the last time of my Assumption College career--no longer a student, but a brand-new alumna.<br /><br />Here's&nbsp;our story as I know it:<br /><br />One rainy late August day in 2006,&nbsp;a gray minivan packed to capacity with the items necessary for spending a year in a 3-person freshman dorm room drove up Salisbury St.&nbsp;and&nbsp;was waved onto campus because sitting behind parents and between siblings was a quiet&nbsp;18-year-old girl who needed to begin writing words on the blank pages of the next chapter of her life. A few months before, she had sent in a $500 acceptance deposit to Assumption College--her mother's alma mater, one of only two schools she applied to in her home state, a place she never really gave much thought to during the chaos of college application processes but simply&nbsp;kept on her list of potential options in case she decided at the last minute that a big&nbsp;university in the middle of Philadelphia might not fit her as well as she'd believed it did.<br /><br />Before she knew it, bags and boxes were flying everywhere while parents and kids ran around frantically trying to figure out what could stay, what needed to go home, what was left behind and would have to be overnighted to a P.O. box in the middle of the campus center as soon as possible.<br /><br />And as her parents left her standing alone&nbsp;in the doorway of her new "home," she cried and cried and cried because she was scared that this wasn't going to end well, completely convinced that this stupid&nbsp;place in the middle of Worcester&nbsp;could never feel like home to her.<br /><br />The thing about books, however, is that they don't work unless somebody has decided to write the progression of the plot. Without the next page, they pause awkwardly until&nbsp;the author decides to continue the protagonist's journey.&nbsp;Keeping this in mind, she began writing. She wrote about how she didn't fit in, how she should have stopped second-guessing her choice and stuck with Temple University from the start, how she was starting to find people she could spend time with outside of her room, how she was okay with not going home until Columbus Day, how much fun she had with her roommates that weekend, how amazingly&nbsp;great all of&nbsp;her new friends were, how much she would miss this place all summer until she could pull back onto campus&nbsp;for Round 2 the next August.<br /><br />For the next four years, she continued to write the pages of this chapter right up until the very last period of the very last sentence. When she was finally finished, she took a minute to look it over. What she saw were tears countered by twice as much laughter. Failures overshadowed by both&nbsp;bigger and smaller successes. The greatest memories she could have ever asked to make, all because she was surrounded by the greatest people she could have ever asked to drive up Salisbury St. and pull through the gate she had driven past so many times--the people who held her hand when she was unsure of&nbsp; where she was going, who talked her down from figurative ledges when she was ready to just give up, who stuck around when she felt like the rest of the world was walking away, who convinced her that this was where she needed to be.<br /><br />That's when she realized that she was only able to grow because those people, her family in her new home, helped her do it.<br /><br />There&nbsp;were many things in this life that&nbsp;she still didn't&nbsp;understand: why&nbsp;saying goodbye could not&nbsp;be easier, why&nbsp;her&nbsp;words always found a way to bypass the awkward filter when they left&nbsp;her mouth, why no language really has enough words to fully express every emotion&nbsp;she had felt that week, why&nbsp;she deserved to have the opportunity to spend these past four years surrounded by so many amazing people.&nbsp; But&nbsp;as much as she wished she would be pulling onto campus, driving by the front&nbsp;gate and flashing her student ID again the next August, she understood that Assumption had already done all it could do for her by giving her the love of a family in the shelter of a home she could not have&nbsp;survived without.<br /><br />As she drove by you today for the last time, she picked up her pen and began writing the next chapter.<br /><br />For all you have meant to me, for all you have given me, and for all you will continue to mean to me, thank you.<br /><br />Love,<br />Jennifer Ann Gallant, <i>Biology</i>; <i>cum laude</i>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-29640321724905424892010-04-26T16:17:00.000-04:002010-04-26T16:17:44.546-04:00these are the things i will miss the most.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S9X0HXuj_aI/AAAAAAAAAIo/qiQyFBx5Ens/s1600/711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S9X0HXuj_aI/AAAAAAAAAIo/qiQyFBx5Ens/s320/711.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A month ago, you wouldn't have caught me dead at a bar on a Tuesday night unless it was a friend or roommate's birthday. But nowadays, my attitude is shifting. It's not apathy or losing sight of responsibility. Instead, I'm finally figuring out that I have a pretty good handle on this whole school thing. Five years from now, I'm most likely not going to remember how arthropods begin their molting process or how many million years ago the first "fishapod" walked the earth. I'll probably forget the list of&nbsp;exactly which third world countries sided with the US and which sided with the Soviet Union during the Cold War. With less than&nbsp;25 days left, maybe the most important thing is not staying in and striving for a solid&nbsp;8 hours of sleep. Maybe the most important thing is savoring the moments&nbsp;destined to transform&nbsp;into&nbsp;beautiful memories that actually <em>will</em> still hold meaning five, ten, or fifty years from now. Moments that make me want to press the pause button and suspend time for just long enough to commit the entire scene to memory.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S9X0Rl6cTWI/AAAAAAAAAIw/89tDOGnZRXo/s1600/7112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S9X0Rl6cTWI/AAAAAAAAAIw/89tDOGnZRXo/s320/7112.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />&nbsp;</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Moments like roommate dance parties.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">BoDo's runs.</div>Ten cent taco night.<br />Free Fallin' sing-a-longs.<br />Overhead crowd surfers at a packed concert.<br />Charades in a Line.<br />Midnight Italian ricotta cookies.<br />Midnight Italian ricotta pancakes.<br />Adorable lost kittens.<br />Lady Gaga lyric screaming.<br />A cappella Mac photo booth sessions.<br />Sals 317 roommate weekend pictures.<br />Staying at a bar all Tuesday night&nbsp;until it closes at 2 AM,&nbsp;then simply moving the party across the street for chili cheese nachos outside 7-11.<br /><br /><br />These are the moments I want to hold onto forever, the moments&nbsp;I want&nbsp;to catch in a jar as they float like&nbsp;lightning bugs&nbsp;through my line of vision. I want to pack them&nbsp;safely away and&nbsp;take them with me to every new destination I arrive at after I leave this one.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S9X0fKQjpnI/AAAAAAAAAI4/6OkxoC8GVEc/s1600/7111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S9X0fKQjpnI/AAAAAAAAAI4/6OkxoC8GVEc/s320/7111.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><br />(big thanks to maggie g. for the pictures :] )Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-65390407867796488132010-04-09T01:12:00.001-04:002010-04-09T01:16:31.902-04:00i can fold a paper crane with my eyes closed.It's a trick I learned while sitting on the floor of a Brighton funeral home on a cold, snowy mid-April day during&nbsp;my junior year of high school. I don't remember the name of the girl who taught me. I don't remember her face or if she even went to school with me. Five years later, the only thing I can really remember is the sharp contrast of her calm instructions against the heart-wrenching sounds of another girl sobbing in a back room.<br /><br />"Now unfold that piece and pull it up... then pull these two to puff out the body. That's all."<br /><br />The room was full of kids looking down, quietly folding. I tossed my crane into the large&nbsp;pile that had begun to form in the middle of the room. One more out of ten thousand folded tributes to a life ended too soon.<br /><br /><br />In any jumbled, messy&nbsp;story of growing up, there are&nbsp;events that stand alone and apart from the chaos as significant milestones. Often times, these moments&nbsp;are not recognized as being so important and life-changing until long after they've passed. They become life's greatest lessons--and while they may be too far over our heads the first time around, they burrow themselves in our hearts and minds and wait until they are called upon later in life at a time when we can better understand what it is we're being taught.<br /><br /><br />I met my friend Stephanie for the first time when I joined&nbsp;the girls' swim team as a sophomore in high school. She was a small freshman with a voice almost as high as a three-year-old who just inhaled a balloon full of helium, a tiny-framed ball of energy, a fast swimmer and an even faster talker. Beyond that, she was competitive as all hell. We were never really super close, but for the time I knew her, I came to consider her a pretty good friend. We would go over Chinese homework together on the bus to practice, talk about manga we were reading, and hang out after school before ASIA meetings. Every so often, I got a peek at the pieces of Steph that didn't quite match up with the bubbly manga-reading person I saw in school every day. She was searching for happiness that she seemed to never really find. Her blog entries seemed to be written by an entirely different person than the one I saw in school, a girl too angry at the world around her to be bothered about helping little animals or giving candy to her friends.<br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div>"No one would miss me," she once told me.&nbsp;"Nobody would cry or anything. I doubt anyone would even know the difference."</div>"Not true,"&nbsp;I answered, unsure of what else to say.&nbsp;"I would cry."<br />"That sounds like a huge load of bullshit."<br /><br />On April 9, 2005, a sunny springtime Saturday, she&nbsp;walked out of a Chinatown restaurant and into the middle of a busy intersection on Washington St. <br /><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"She came out of nowhere,"&nbsp;they all&nbsp;said.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"There's no way he could have seen her in time to stop the car."</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div></div>Maybe the worst part about it, for me, was that she was right. I didn't cry when I heard the news the next day. I didn't cry when I got to school that Monday and saw&nbsp;everyone else&nbsp;crying. I didn't cry when I walked past the locker covered in notes and flowers, and I didn't cry when I sat down in Greek Tradition a few desks in front of an empty&nbsp;chair with a teddy bear and bouquet in the place of a student. I didn't cry when I dressed in black and hopped on a bus to Chestnut Hill, didn't cry when my 2-mile walk from the bus stop to the funeral home was interupted by a bearded&nbsp;20-something-year-old&nbsp;anarchist trying to sell&nbsp;me&nbsp;on the evils of government, didn't cry when I saw her because whoever that poor dead&nbsp;girl was in the casket didn't look <em>anything</em> like anyone I knew. I didn't even&nbsp;cry when my guidance counselor hugged me and said "It's okay to cry." The only thing I could do was sit silently on the floor with a bunch of other kids and fold birds out of scraps of paper. I didn't know what else to do, because it didn't seem real.<br /><br />Like the Boston Herald wrote the next day, "at 16, death is supposed to be an abstraction."<br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I didn't cry until I was sitting in the passenger seat of my mother's car a month later on the way home from the wake of my Chinese teacher, the fifth and final&nbsp;death that my high&nbsp;school's community had suffered in that year. I guess that was the moment that my 16-year-old self&nbsp;began to realize&nbsp;that death is not an abstraction, it's a reality. It's a very, very real part of life.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Today is April 9, 2010. It has been five years to the day&nbsp;since Stephanie passed away. Today, I am twenty one years old, thirty seven days away from my college graduation ceremony.&nbsp;Over the past five years, I've been to&nbsp;many&nbsp;more&nbsp;wakes, funerals, and memorials. The pages of my Kare Kano manga books are yellowing&nbsp;and gathering dust in a box somewhere in&nbsp;the attic. It's been so long since I've swum competively that I doubt I'd be able to finish a 50 free anywhere close to my best time. My last Chinese homework assignment was passed in four years ago. This past summer, Carmen DiNunzio began serving a 6-year sentence in federal prison after pleading guilty to charges of extortion, bribery, and illegal gambling; no charges were ever filed against him&nbsp;after a 16-year-old high school student was hit and killed by his SUV. Ten thousand paper cranes are flying in peace parks all around the world in memory of a girl whose hands were not there to fold any of them.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There's not a lot I remember from my junior year of high school. It's one of those awkward teenage&nbsp;years I try not to think about too much. But&nbsp;five years later,&nbsp;I do still find myself subconsciously folding scraps of paper into cranes of different sizes, colors, textures and patterns. Every time I finish one, I'm forced for just&nbsp;a split second to remember the day I learned how to make an origami crane, to see how much has changed since then, to reflect on another&nbsp;lesson that I'm finally really beginning to grasp: that a life is a book with a beginning and an end.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Just because the pages stop doesn't mean the&nbsp;protagonist must cease to exist. She can continue on beyond the binding, living&nbsp;happily ever after&nbsp;in the&nbsp;epilogues created for her by the people lucky enough to have had the chance to&nbsp;read her novel.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S76OqFX5E1I/AAAAAAAAAIg/d5jPFFGYSQM/s1600/100_3099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S76OqFX5E1I/AAAAAAAAAIg/d5jPFFGYSQM/s320/100_3099.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>"She was there with us, and everyone knew it. Snow was falling in the middle of April. I mean, even in Massachusetts,&nbsp;how often does that actually happen?"</em></span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">in memory of stephanie lam</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">2/6/1989-4/9/2005</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">安息</span></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(The Boston Globe&nbsp;article on Stephanie's cranes can be found here: <a href="http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2005/05/08/for_a_life_cut_short_a_paper_tribute/">http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/articles/2005/05/08/for_a_life_cut_short_a_paper_tribute/</a>)</span></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-49336581860833691532010-04-01T12:05:00.015-04:002010-04-01T19:24:29.726-04:00the best ricotta cookie recipe you will ever try. ever.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7THGqfScJI/AAAAAAAAAHw/DoDD-kRp6ao/s1600/100_3044.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 198px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455203965951176850" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7THGqfScJI/AAAAAAAAAHw/DoDD-kRp6ao/s400/100_3044.jpg" /></a>INGREDIENTS:<br />1/2 tub Smart Balance butter spread<br /><div>2 eggs<br />1 lb ricotta cheese you need to get rid of ASAP</div><div>1 3/4 cups white sugar</div><div>approx 1/4 cup brown sugar</div><div>2 tsp vanilla extract</div><div>1/2 tsp salt</div><div>1 1/2 tsp baking soda</div><div>1 container Activia vanilla yogurt</div><div>4 c flour</div><div>chocolate jimmies</div><div>some alcoholic beverages</div><br /><br />Preheat oven to 350. Take a sip of beverage.<br /><br />Beat eggs and butter using a la<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7TIAmujbYI/AAAAAAAAAH4/BS4ZNOUe1Rk/s1600/100_3052.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 208px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 152px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455204961373875586" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7TIAmujbYI/AAAAAAAAAH4/BS4ZNOUe1Rk/s400/100_3052.jpg" /></a>rge serving spoon and a small teaspoon. Add ricotta and white sugar. After realizing you do not have all 2 cups of white sugar needed, throw brown sugar into mix until you think you've made up for the missing 1/4 cup. Take another sip and repeatedly ignore your roommate's suggestion to scrape the pink sugar off a package of Peeps.<br /><br />With your drink in hand, do a Google search for effective baking powder substitutes. Assume one container of Activia = 1/2 cup of yogurt. Add yogurt &amp; baking soda; eyeball salt.<br /><br />Slowly add in about 3 2/3 cups of flour. Sprinkle the remaining 1/3 cup onto the table, the floor, the open container of ricotta, etc. Throw in vanilla and do a quick taste test to make sure everything checks out.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7UiR_mkMII/AAAAAAAAAIA/1Cgrv2t7kog/s1600/100_3058.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 209px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 157px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455304216155533442" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7UiR_mkMII/AAAAAAAAAIA/1Cgrv2t7kog/s400/100_3058.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Drop dough by rounded spoonfuls, about the size of a tennis ball, onto a lightly greased baking sheet. If the dough is too sticky, add more flour by the fistful until it has at least somewhat of a shape-able consistency. Drop as much dough as possible onto the burners of the stovetop. Laugh so hard that you become genuinely concerned about the possibility of peeing in the kitchen trash can.<br /><br />Bake cookies for 10-15 minutes or until golden brown. Continue to work on your drink and watch in awe as the giant globs of doug<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7UlwsNZt7I/AAAAAAAAAII/sUGv5OoTKJ4/s1600/100_3076.jpg"></a>h flatten out to resemble small cakes. If you choose not to ignore the lightbulb that is about to go off in your head, continue to the nex<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7Ul_8xmRUI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/dxmH79ZgMAk/s1600/100_3076.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 237px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 133px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455308304205366594" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7Ul_8xmRUI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/dxmH79ZgMAk/s400/100_3076.jpg" /></a>t paragraph.<br /><br />Heat a small skillet on high; spray with cooking spray. Take the cookie dough and spoon it onto the skillet in the shape of a pancake. Flip as needed. If you flip the cookie pancake too early, simply pile all the dough back together in an attempt to repair it. Add chocolate jimmies to batter if desired.<br /><br />Forget about tomorrow's BIO320 exam. Forget about student teaching observations. Forget about work, forget about internships, forget about the real world. Eat. Drink. Laugh. Repeat.<br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 225px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 145px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455312339349317266" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S7Upq024ppI/AAAAAAAAAIY/aN8j80N1IVM/s400/100_3083.jpg" /><br />Makes about 24 large cookies and 4 pancakes.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-49055786731590800172010-03-28T23:31:00.000-04:002010-03-29T00:33:01.659-04:00objective: to figure out my new objective.In the fog of waitlists, rejections, massively large traffic tickets, incomplete applications and 4% downsizing that has dominated the last few weeks of my life, the one shining beacon of hope that has kept me sane is a home-turned-college administrative building on Old English Road that backs up to the edge of campus: the Student Development &amp; Counseling Center, a.k.a. The AC Center for Seniors Who Can't Write a Resume Good and Want to Learn How to Do Other Stuff Good Too.<br /><br />For the past month or so, I have been in almost constant contact with David K. at the SDCC, trying to form a plan to up my chances of getting into a graduate program off the waitlist and changing my resume to fit a job application instead of a school application. It didn't hit me that my post-graduation plan has actually changed, however, until I opened a short email last week:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Jenn: Are you considering applying to Siemens/Bayer? If so, you need to change your objective line. Other than that, looks great.-DK</span> </span><br /><br />Up until March 10, my objective had been <em>Admission to a Direct-Entry Master's program for Nursing</em>. Plain and simple, clear-cut and straightforward. I hadn't put much thought into it because, well, what else is there to say when you're building a resume catered to an admissions board for a direct-entry master's program for nursing? That was my step one; there could be no other objective for me until I was ready to move to step two aprroximately 24-36 months later. But in my current situation, I could very well still be waiting for step one, or I could already be on step three or four. For all I know, I could still be staring blankly at a building directory trying to figure out where the %$&amp;! the damn stairway is.<br /><br />Sometimes, things don't fall into place quite the way we want them to. We can make millions of plans for every hypothetical situation we might find ourselves in, but let's be honest--does the universe <em>ever</em> run smoothly when we need it to the most?<br /><br />So I'm picking myself up and brushing off the dirt, making my way up to the SDCC, placing my resume in envelopes marked Siemens/Bayer, and re-examining what exactly my objective might be.<br /><br />My objective is to find somewhere to be at least for next year, but not to spend the rest of my life in a research lab. My objective is to find a way to prove that you don't need a white coat to think like a scientist.<br /><br />Someone once told me that most of the world's worst problems could easily be solved over a cup of tea. Idealistic? Maybe. But all anyone really wants is for someone to listen. Young or old, rich or poor, each of us has a story to tell--the only problem is that not everyone has a voice to tell it with. Unfortunately, the people in this world who are dealt a bad hand are usually the ones whose voices have been muffled, literally or figuratively.<br /><br />My objective is to hear what they are trying to say. To become a better listener than talker, but to be a voice for the voiceless.<br /><br />I want to design experiments that are run in real life, not in a laboratory. I want to observe people, watch what they do, listen to what they say. I want to ask questions of them, of myself, of society as a whole and I want to analyze every piece of every answer. I want to make educated guesses and apply these guesses to actual situations--then I want to see where things can be improved for a better experimental outcome. At the end of it all, I want to draw solid &amp; sound conclusions that I can share with everyone around me in the hopes that maybe we're making even a tiny percent of a fraction of a positive difference for at least one person.<br /><br />Nobody's true objectives can ever be shrunk down to adequately fit one or two lines on a resume. These goals we all have are far bigger and more involved than an 8.5x11" piece of paper. All we can put in that space is how we might want to use certain tools to reach what it is we're really aiming for.<br /><br />On paper, my new objective is simple:<br /><em>To secure a position within the field of science or human services utilizing a Bachelor's Degree in Biology in an effort to build a long-term career in health sciences.</em><br /><br />In reality, though, that's only scratching the surface. It's only my step one.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-62185421748706186892010-03-01T00:24:00.004-05:002010-03-01T01:32:27.500-05:00i'm just waiting for the sun.Have you seen him around?<br /><br />The last time I saw him was on the water-logged softball field across from my apartment a week ago. I had tossed my brown Northface to the side and stood in the comfort of his rays for ten precious minutes before leaving to spend my afternoon in the back corner of a grocery store tucked away in the back corner of a small town next door to the back corner of Connecticut.<br /><br />"Sun, I love you," I told him. "I lovelovelovelove you. You make me so happy. Thank you for being in my life. You are the only Valentine I'll ever need."<br /><br />That's right. The sun is my perfect Valentine. He knows exactly how to put a smile on my face when I'm having a bad day. He can light up a room just by looking through the window to say hello. He's always ready with a hug and he never makes me cry. Whenever he says goodbye for the night, I know he'll come back soon. While he could never surprise me with chocolate or flowers, he brings out the best in me even when all I can see is the worst. What more could you ask for in a Valentine?<br /><br />Did I ever mention I have a Valentine's Day curse?<br /><br />It's true. Ending a relationship on February 15th probably can't be a sign of good things to come. Ever since then, not only have I been Valentine-less, but any hope my love life holds for the following ten months of the year is KO'ed--usually in an unnecessarily violent manner, always sometime in the month of February.<br /><br />I probably should have thought about that before I shared my feelings with the sun. I think I scared him off. I probably came on too strong, too fast.<br /><br />Either way, after I had gotten in my car and left, he quietly packed up his things and left town. No phone call, no note, no indication of when he might come back. The only thing he left behind was a tangled, windy mess of rain, snow, and gray melancholy that's managed to leave my emotions and spirit as empty, colorless, and transparent as my far-too-pale winter skin.<br /><br />I think I've seen him a few times since then, but it never lasts. I'll see his face peek out from behind a cloud for a minute or two, and I'll get excited and hope that maybe he's coming back to stay. It's always short-lived, though, and I'm reminded that my awkward clumsiness in relationships is alive and well. I speak when I should stay quiet. I'm quiet when I should say what I'm thinking. Sometimes I miss cues, other times I jump too far ahead of myself. Without fail, I end up tripping and falling flat on my face.<br /><br />I guess I can add the sun to my running list of February Fails. He gets the 5th spot on the big 4 year list, but skillfully managed to snag the 2nd for this year alone.<br /><br />The good thing, though, is that the sun never leaves for good. He'll come back to me soon. He just needed some space, that's all. Can't say I blame him.<br /><br />In the meantime, I really, really miss those hugs.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S4tP-CwB2NI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/wKwsChC2p_U/s1600-h/100_1868.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443532501916178642" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S4tP-CwB2NI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/wKwsChC2p_U/s400/100_1868.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-44848613075653254522010-02-24T22:31:00.004-05:002010-02-24T22:50:11.792-05:00i should listen to myself more often.Congratulations. You did it. You are now one-quarter of the way through the second semester of your senior year in college.<br /><br />Take a minute to let that statement sink in. Four years ago, did you ever think this day would come? Now that it's finally here, how do you feel? Are you upset, or are you relieved? Are you excited, or are you nervous? Are you counting down the hours and minutes between now and the moment you'll walk across the stage? Or are you in denial, hoping that one of these mornings you'll wake up back in the warm days of August and September, when the end was only just beginning?<br /><br />This isn't a dream. This is the real thing. Every second turns into another minute, every minute turns into another hour, every hour turns into another day closer to May 15, 2010. It's coming, whether we want it to or not. Are you ready?<br /><br />Of course you're ready. We're all ready. We wouldn't have made it this far if we weren't. All those hours spent in class, every exam and every paper, all that time spent in office hours or at club meetings or at practices, even those weekend nights full of less-than-great decisions, all of it was meant to prepare us for this.<br /><br />We're approaching an emormous crossroads. There are an infinite number of paths lying before us. We can choose to follow any one of them, each one with its own infinite number of forks and branches ahead.<br /><br />Which one will you choose?<br /><br />You have the education. You have the training and the experience. You have the tools you need to arrive safely at your destination, wherever that may be. No doubt there will be some bumps in the road, some minor and some huge, and you'll certainly have to take a few detours along the way. Those unexpected turns, however, are the intricate and exceptional details that complete a life story.<br /><br />So listen to yourself, follow your heart, trust your instincts, and pick the path you feel drawn to, knowing that you have what it takes to make it past whatever obstacles lie ahead. Don't doubt your abilities; if you made it this far alive and intact, you can certainly keep going. Nothing is ever set in stone. You have the rest of your life ahead of you--there's plenty of time in there to experience the unknown, make mistakes, learn from them, and change directions.<br /><br />In the end, wherever you end up is exactly where you're supposed to be.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Best of luck on whichever path you choose :)<br />-Jenn G.<br /><p><br /></p><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 399px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 284px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442022769060466002" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S4Xy4BlvzVI/AAAAAAAAAHI/3CUHbhN5Mgs/s400/senior+retreat.jpg" />Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-82778756305235823732010-02-11T23:34:00.004-05:002010-02-12T00:04:58.632-05:00"we're running out of opportunities to do this,"she says from her place on the wood-and-fabric two-seater. "Seriously though, how cool would it be if we could get together and do this again next year? Here's the thing, though--we can't EVER do this again after THIS year. We won't be together anymore."<br /><div></div><br /><div>It's snowing. The college closed at 3 PM. The four of us are all wearing our oversized Living the Hound Life t-shirts over black spandex leggings. One is drinking Wachusett Blueberry, one is drinking Bud Light, one is drinking white wine and one is drinking Smirnoff in some kind of fruit juice. The only thing missing is the fifth roommate; the overachieving real-life example of what all of humanity should be like, who graduated early so she could volunteer at an orphanage in Peru. Show-off.</div><br /><div>We have ten weekends left, including this one. Only ten weekends left before the real world swallows us up. Ten weekends left to be completely immature and completely grown up at the same time.</div><br /><div></div><div>And so here we are on a Wednesday afternoon, watching a combination of TLC and trashy MTV shows in our beautiful matching outfits, anxiously awaiting the 4 pm cocktail hour we have planned--featuring prosciutto quiche and the aformentioned classy beverages of choice.</div><br /><div>We're a unique group of girls, to say the least, and we've come a long way since we showed up here one summer day in late August 2006.</div><br /><div>We still have a long way to go.</div><br /><div>And we still have ten weekends left to build up our bank account of college memories.</div><br /><div>But the time when Wednesday afternoon snowstorm cocktail hours will no longer be relevant to our lives is fast approaching.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So when Nicki comes out of her room at 3:57 PM when I'm taking a break from a history paper and asks me why there isn't a Wachusett Blueberry in my hand in preparation for the cocktail hour, instead of calling upon my better judgement and using the unexpected time off to do work, I quickly oblige.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Turns out, I <em>was</em> calling upon my better judgement. If every Wednesday afternoon between now and May could have a cocktail hour built somewhere into it, this semester would be perfect.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437218083092513122" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S3ThCfkPQWI/AAAAAAAAAHA/vev-WHFyFvU/s400/100_2697.jpg" /></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-86428115006632335232010-02-07T17:33:00.011-05:002010-02-08T00:30:00.827-05:00writing, singing, a driver's license, and baking.Those are the four tools God gave me to diffuse my emotions.<br /><br />The writing is a tough one because there aren't enough hours in the day; this blog spends more time gathering dust in a remote corner of cyberspace than it does being used for its original purpose. I won't sing by myself if I think someone is watching, and a cappella rehearsals only happen twice a week. As for driving, gas is expensive, and there are only so many times I can drive up and down Routes 1, 9, 109 and 95 before they get so repetitive that they stress me out.<br /><br /><br />When God caught wind of these problems more than two years ago, back when I was still thinking He didn't really give a crap about what went on down here, He took one look at the awkward, quiet, brown-haired mess of life in the glasses and said to himself,<br /><br /><em>"This kid is in big trouble."</em><br /><br />So He stopped by the HR office one day and began sifting through files and folders, looking for a job application submitted by Jennifer A. Gallant who prefers to be called Jenn, and when He finally found it, He wrote a note at the top:<br /><br />"INDICATED FRONT END--BAKERY POSSIBLE?"<br /><br />And while it wasn't nearly the same as baking homemade cookies or mixing buttercream frosting from scratch, it worked.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I always tell people my dream career is pediatric NP by day, baker extraordinaire by night/weekends/holidays. I love to find recipes, try them out, modify them here and there until I come up with something uniquely mine that looks almost as sweet as it tastes. For me, baking is a de-stressor that can rival even the strongest alcoholic drink. It gives me the chance to silently reflect without having to be still, to actively create something delicious while sorting out this tangled ridiculous mess called LIFE. The way the elements of a recipe come together and fall perfectly into place parallels the way I think through and pick apart whatever problems I have while waiting for an oven to pre-heat or for dough to rise. It calms and quiets me so I can clearly hear God's voice during times when I need Him to talk to me the most. I think maybe that's what he had in mind for me when He gave me baking.<br /><br /><br /><br />While I was cluelessly dancing around the apartment last night, He knew the Black Eyed Peas were lying to me every single time they said it was gonna be a good night.<br /><br /><br />So it came as no surprise that while I was driving down 290 W to 395 S this morning, my spirit crushed and my eyes tired and bloodshot, He was already in Webster waiting for me, this time in the form of a baking rack full of uniced 7-inch rounds and stripcakes.<br /><br /><em>"Thought you might want to talk,"</em> He said.<br /><br />I stood there for a minute and looked Him over a few times while N'Sync serenaded the customers and associates from overhead.<br /><br />I was angry. I was upset. I was angry because I was upset, so I took a chocolate cake off the rack and placed it on the cake stand, then slammed a spatula-full of white frosting onto it.<br /><br /><br />"<em>I don't want to talk to You yet because I don't even know where to start</em>," I said as I spun the cake on the stand. "<em>So if You don't mind, I'd like to keep my unpleasant feelings between myself and this cake for the moment while I figure some stuff out. Sound good to You?</em>"<br /><br /><br />As the cake became fully engulfed in frosting, I replayed everything in my head--every word, every expression, every action. I ran a comb along the side as I silently screamed obscenities. With each rosette, I wondered where I went wrong, and with each sprinkle, I wondered what I had missed. I began singing along to the music above me while I focused on the cake in front of me, piping all of my sadness into its borders. I drowned out everything but the cake, the music, and my fired-up thoughts. The irony was that the customers and my co-workers thought I was in a chipper mood as I sang along with John Mayer and Celine Dion and Rod Stewart.<br /><br /><br />What was really happening was that I was caught in my own world of sugary bitterness, in denial that I would at some point have to stop berating myself and start accepting that what happened happened.<br /><br /><br />Eventually God grew impatient with me and began calling me back, interrupting the music and obnoxiously yelling "BAKERY, TAKE A PHONE CALL ON LINE ONE PLEASE. BAKERY, LINE ONE."<br />"<em>Nice try</em>," I said sarcastically as I finished topping my rosettes with lemon drops while someone else picked up the phone.<br />"ATTENTION PLEASE SHAW'S CUSTOMERS AND ASSOCIATES, IF THERE IS A CATHERINE SMITH IN THE STORE, PLEASE COME TO THE FRONT OF AISLE 5, YOUR DAUGHTER IS WAITING FOR YOU."<br />"PRODUCE CALL ONE-TWELVE FOR CUSTOMER ASSISTANCE PLEASE. PRODUCE, ONE ONE TWO FOR CUSTOMER ASSISTANCE."<br />"CARLOS TO RECIEVING FOR A DELIVERY, CARLOS TO RECIEVING."<br />"BECKY, CALL ON LINE TWO."<br />"ROB TO THE FRONT END PLEASE. ROB, FRONT END."<br /><br /><br />Annoying. Immature. COMPLETELY unnecessary.<br /><br /><br />"<em>Fine</em>." I was gritting my teeth, seething on the inside but still humming to the music on the outside. "<em>Here is my question: WHY?!</em>" I asked as I grabbed another cake off the rack.<br /><br />"<em>Because everything happens for a reason,</em>" He answered.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Could there be a more cliche answer? Probably not, but He was right. He always is.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />For four hours and eight trays of cakes, we picked it apart. I asked Him questions, He gave me answers. I cried on His shoulder, He consoled me. I told Him everything really, really sucks sometimes and He said not everything, but definitely some things, and the suckiest things are usually the ones with the best lesson attached.<br /><br /><br />What was my lesson here? There wasn't just one. I learned that it's okay to open up and let someone else see what's really inside me, hidden below the awkward quietness and the glasses. I learned not to settle for something that isn't what I deserve, that there's a lot better out there if I keep my eyes open. I learned that people are actually not going to dislike me for wanting to be friendly (wierd?) and I learned that God shows up everywhere, not just in a baking rack, but also in the actions of the people I'm close to, the people I see every day. I also learned, again, that everything happens for a reason.<br /><br /><br /><br />I'm still working on figuring out exactly what the reasoning was behind this, but I know it's there.<br /><br /><br /><br />As I started piping the border onto my last lemon stripcake, I took a deep breath.<br /><br /><em>"So, what do I do now?"</em> I asked Him.<br /><br />"<em>Simple. You keep doing everything you've been doing,</em>" He replied. "<em>I wouldn't put you through something if I thought you couldn't deal with it; you should know that by now. Have faith that it will all come together when it's supposed to, the way it's supposed to</em>."<br /><br /><br /><br />With that, I covered the rack and wheeled it into the cooler.<br /><br />"<em>Just remember this above everything else</em>," He said before I closed the door. "<em>There was always a friend there. That didn't change. That will never change.</em>"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I suppose I will be baking quite a few cookies this week.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435726274059350978" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/S2-UPx2Qs8I/AAAAAAAAAG4/FfiL6af146A/s400/952882_cake.jpg" />Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-21068436360200220272009-12-31T17:11:00.003-05:002009-12-31T18:08:08.524-05:00oh facebook. where would i be without you? probably done with my homework, that's where.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/Sz0h5jx3HAI/AAAAAAAAAGw/xQjQpqDUXxQ/s1600-h/img.png"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421526799164578818" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/Sz0h5jx3HAI/AAAAAAAAAGw/xQjQpqDUXxQ/s400/img.png" /></a> 1.) Only days left until SEND: Camden 2010. If 2009's trip was any indicator of how this one will go, it's sure to be another one of the best experiences of my life.<br />2.) I still run on Dunkin' most of the time, but I now also have a particular fondness for Boston Donuts on Park Ave. Khalua Creme or Almond Joy iced coffee can sometimes put hazelnut to shame.<br /><div>3.) Unsure if I'm feeling up to the challenge of forgoing Facebook for forty days and forty nights another time around.<br />4.) Ever wonder how LCD screens work? Ever care to know? It's not all that exciting, trust me.<br />5.) The age of technology has put us in constant contact with one another. Sometimes I wonder if that's always a good thing. The more technologically advanced we get, the more we drift away from the simpler joys in life.</div><div>6.) Turns out Khaki-Beige Puke doesn't show up on anybody's list of favorite colors.<br />7.) Ever see those TV ads by Autism Speaks? The estimated prevalance of autism spectrum disorders in the US is 1 in every 110 births. This is, in its simplest form, a national health crisis. I can only hope that sometime in the next 10, 20, or 30 years, we unlock some answers to the questions "why?" and "how?" I'm sure any parent who has ever watched their child lick the swim instructor hopes so too.<br />8.) You turn 21, and everything changes.</div><div>9.) Oh camp. I will truly miss 36 hours of student leader bonding in the deep woods with the mosquitoes and poison ivy. Nothing says "We're in this together for the good of our fellow members of the student body" like 50 different ice breakers topped off by completing a low ropes course.<br />10.) First of all, barbecue sauce is now and forever will be my favorite condiment. Second, me on any sort of cold medication is bound to yield entertaining results. And if the good people of SEARCH want to know what my favorite order at Charlie's is after I've taken Alka Seltzer Plus, then by God, they are going to get a thorough answer and explanation.</div><div>11.) Sir Francis Bacon made his way into two disciplines I studied this semester. How nice of him to show up.<br />12.) Like all jobs, being the designated weekend night ramen cooker has its benefits and its risks. I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed up for this. It comes with the territory.<br />13.) By "recycle," rest assured I do not mean we played Bounce or Break off the balcony above 6R. I can neither confirm nor deny, however, if we maybe got sick of them taking over the kitchen and passed up the trip to 6men to put them in the recylcing barrel, instead shoving the bags of bottles into the dumpster outside our apartment. Don't tell Becca.</div><div>14.) We finally figured out what it stands for. Students Talking About Religious Topics. START love is easily one of the greatest loves I have ever known.</div><div>15.) Sometimes I feel like the name change might still be relevant. Other times, I feel like maybe I'm not a giant epic failure... I'm just in a learning stage.</div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-88422453275584244152009-12-18T23:57:00.004-05:002009-12-19T20:23:51.191-05:002 dollars and 40 centsNicki got us all Christmas gifts. They're little coin jars, each one painted with a cute theme picked to match the receiver. Kim's jar is a Wine Fund, Becca's is Vacation Money, Maggie's is for Happy Hour and mine is for Hopeless Dreams.<br /><br />I laugh. It's a good gift, not at all offensive because I'm forever complaining about wishing &amp; hoping for things I can't have, things that most likely won't happen. To me, this is great, because it's someone else besides myself acknowleging that a lot of the time, when I find something in life that I really want to happen, the joke is on me. Now, I have a way to take my wishful thinking and transform it into something I can use as a financially-struggling college senior: a jar full of spare change.<br /><br />While still laughing, I start taking change from off my desk and placing it into the jar. I proudly dedicate each coin to one of my many Hopeless Dreams, like the jar instructs me to. Nicki shakes her head, laughs, and leaves the room.<br /><br />Over the next few days, I continue this routine of taking my coins and dropping them through the slot in the jar, pairing each one with another crazy and unlikely wish, just like a kid at a water fountain. Pennies are for everyday hopeless wishes; quarters are saved for the big important stuff. Nickels and dimes are for everything in between.<br /><br />About three days and $2.35 later, I realize I've been doing it all wrong.<br /><br />"Y'know, I was gonna say something to you about that," Nicki says, "but then I figured there was no way you read it wrong that many times, and you must have just thought you'd made a really funny joke, and I didn't want to crush that for you yet."<br /><br /><br />With that, I drop another nickel into my Hopes &amp; Dreams coin jar: this one's for spontaneous free-of-cost vision improval.<br /><br /><br /><br />Kinda got me thinking though... maybe all my hopes &amp; dreams aren't as hopeless as I always think they are.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-84712563164621442652009-12-16T22:49:00.002-05:002009-12-19T19:41:51.164-05:00"so did you pick a talk topic yet, or do i need to send you an angry email?"yeah. i picked my stupid topic. not like i had much choice in the matter, though. it's been staring me down since last friday night saying "pick me. just suck it up and do it already. i don't care if you don't want to, you HAVE to."<br /><br /><em>4. WHAT KEEPS US FROM GOD? SIN AND FORGIVENESS: Talk giver must be open about his/her sins; how did your behavior hold you back from fully living your life? What effect does sin have on your personality? On the larger community? What is your experience with forgiveness and the freedom that comes with it? What has your experience with the sacrament of reconciliation been like? How does it feel to know that God forgives you?</em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />oof.<br /><br /><br />quite honestly, the thought of "sharing" about my sinfulness with a group of confirmation kids and a handful of my own peers &amp; friends makes my stomach knot up big time. i've done a lot of stupid things in my life--stupid things that i don't want to tell people about for fear of judgment. not like most people would have the right to judge, since they've probably done the same stupid things i have. it just makes me squeemish because i don't even know why i did them. i probably judge myself more than anyone else judges me.<br /><br />there are other topics i could choose from. i could talk about Jesus' mission on earth. i could talk about the meaning and importance of the sacrament of confirmation. i could even go in the complete opposite direction of sin and talk about the gifts God has given me. for whatever reason, though, i'm drawn to this one. the more i think about it, the more i realize it's an opportunity to reconcile with myself and my actions.<br /><br />remember going to confession for the first time ever? you spent months as a little kid remembering what the teachers said you had to do when it happened. there were lines to memorize and motions to follow: "bless me, father, for i have sinned. this is my first confession," followed by a list of all the bad things you've done, and concluded with a sentencing--er, penance--given by the priest, then you had to say the act of contrition but of course there were 20 million different versions of that you could use and no one was quite sure which one was the REAL one. then, when the time came, you got all dressed up and sat in a pew with all the other seven-year-olds wondering what the parish's pastor, one of the highest figures of authority in your life, was going to think of you when you told him about the time you smacked your little brother upside the head because he was being obnoxious, even though he probably deserved it. you sat in the confessional across from the priest, stumbled over your lines, fidgeted a lot and felt like a terrible person for a few minutes, then had a teachable moment and finished the day up with a couple hail mary's and a glory be, and BAM--clean slate.<br /><br />after the first time, this process became a regular, semi-annual occurance in my life during elementary school. it was the same thing every time; same sins, different day. the worst one was around third grade or so when i finally had the courage to confess to not going to church every sunday. i got a stern lecture from the pastor about how important it is to keep holy the sabbath, and had to say twelve--yes, TWELVE--hail mary's before i could consider myself clean. the great thing about reconciliation, though, was that i could go straight to the big guy to own up everything and got to completely bypass my parents (if they didn't already know about it, that is), thus avoiding punishment and more lecturing. even better was what i was getting in return... it wasn't like mom &amp; dad could guarantee salvation after death for telling them about the time i called chris stupid for no reason other than his being a 5-year-old boy. sweet deal.<br /><br />eventually, though, i lost God, and everything about faith lost its meaning to me. I went to confession a few times during high school before my own confirmation, but it didn't have the same feel-good effect as before. it was just another meaningless step i had to complete. moreover, i didn't have much incentive not to sin and just act like a moron in general. it's not like i was an out-of-control kid, but i definitely wasn't making decisions as a result of careful consideration or because they were what i thought i wanted.<br /><br />the first time i went to confession after my confirmation was like the first time i had ever received that sacrament. i was nervous and fidgety and didn't want to go talk to the priest because i felt guilty. i had been on a retreat that whole weekend and i was starting to gain a sense of where i had gotten lost and how to get back to where i needed to be. luckily, paper and pens were provided for those of us who were too afraid to speak. i stared down at a blank sheet for a long time before i knew where to begin, but once my pen hit the paper, i couldn't stop it until everything weighing on my mind was on that paper.<br /><br />my list of bad things i had done... updated accordingly to fit a young adult instead of a child.<br /><br />it was a lot different than the one i had given the pastor at st. anne's nearly fourteen years earlier. it was a list full of stupid decisions and moments of weakness, of making in-the-moment decisions without thinking of the long-term consequences on myself and the people around me. the things on that list were the things i had done not because i really wanted to, or thought they might be good ideas, but because i didn't know what else to do.<br /><br />the last item on my laundry list of sins:<br />"i am lost and confused. i have walked out on God, and i don't know how to get Him back. my mind has become so clouded over that i can't see clearly anymore."<br /><br /><br />this time, instead of the lecture i was convinced i was going to get, i got advice. i got empathy and caring. i got responses that showed that FINALLY, for the first time, someone understood what was wrong with me. for the first time in a long time, i felt forgiven and new. like a clean slate again.<br /><br /><br /><br />later that day, standing next to some of the closest friends i have made over the last four years, including the one who asked me the question that started this thought process, i threw my sin list into a trash can with everyone else's and we all watched as each of our papers burned and turned to ashes at the bottom of the bucket. the sins weren't gone, they didn't disappear, but they were physically different. they had been transformed into something new.<br /><br />now here i am, almost a year later, more faithful and happy and in-tune with myself than i have ever been. sometimes, like now, i find myself thinking back on the decisions i've made on the past. sometimes they make me angry. sometimes they make me sad. sometimes i get frustrated at myself and sometimes i wish i could build a time machine and take them all back. when i take a step back, though, i remember that i can't really erase my sins. they'll always be there. what's different is the way i look at them. they've been transformed from stains on my soul to teachable moments and, ultimately, steps on the path to where i am now. i've learned a lot from what i've done wrong--i've learned about who i am, about what makes me happy, why i am where i am and why things have happened the way they've happened.<br /><br />like i said before, i've done a lot of stupid things in my life.<br />but if it wasn't for those stupid things, i wouldn't be the person i am right now. and i gotta say, i like who i'm becoming these days a lot better than who i have been before.<br /><br />anyway, yeah, i picked my topic. i don't need an angry email from you. do me a favor though: when you listen to my talk, remember the day we stood and watched those papers burn in the trash, because that's when i became the jenn i am now, the only one of me you've gotten a chance to know. and this jenn really doesn't want you to think any less of her because of the one who used to be in her spot.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-91790071406945455662009-11-26T23:22:00.009-05:002009-11-27T02:43:54.663-05:00happy thanksgiving :)<em>**Note: My mom has been telling me I should write here more often. She's probably tired of trying to convince any relatives that possibly pay attention to this thing that I'm not depressed.Well...I'm not depressed. I'm doing quite well, actually. I'm just busy, which is a good thing. So after dropping off the face of the earth for a while and taking a quick break from feelings, here's something new. Enjoy, and I hope it proves I'm not depressed.**</em><br /><br />It's Thanksgiving Eve. Cold and rainy, and the streets of Downtown Crossing are already decorated for the holidays. The Salvation Army is out in full force and every store is blaring a different version of Jingle Bells.<br /><br />Liz and I are eating quesadillas at Fajitas and Rita's. We're carefully avoiding talk of "the future," because that's just not polite dinner conversation for two seniors in college. But it's on both of our minds, and it's bound to come up eventually. The challenge is picking the right context in which to bring it up and presenting the topic in just the right way.<br /><br />"So what day is your graduation?"<br />"May 15th."<br />"Awwww seriously? UMass and Suffolk's graduations are both the 23rd. I was hoping you were gonna say that Assumption's was that day too. How cool would that be if all three were the same?"<br /><br />Good start. This leads into more serious discussion about such things as career choices, grad school options, and "Suddenly I decided this year that I don't really like one of my majors" dilemmas.<br /><br />Luckily, we manage to realize what it is we're talking about and we both shut up before this horrifying conversation can go any further. We continue the rest of our quesadilla dinner in silence, apart from the occasional comment about the strange artwork around us and the fact that we never did get that side order of olives we asked for. Eventually Kayti gets out of work and texts us, and we venture out into the rain towards Fanueil Hall to find her and figure out where to go next.<br /><br />Liz, Kayti, and I have spent every Thanksgiving Eve together since 8th grade. In high school, there would be more people involved besides us three; usually Fatima and Ashley, sometimes Kelly and Danielle, a few more here &amp; there. We'd get out of school after pep rally at 10:45, hop on the Green line, go out to eat, pick names for Secret Santa, maybe see a movie, maybe get some early Christmas shopping done. The people and activities varied from year to year, and as the time since our high school graduation continues to grow longer and longer, it gets harder and harder for everyone's paths to cross again. But by some miracle, on the last Wednesday of November, we three still manage to find our way back to each other.<br /><br />The three of us have grown immensely since Thanksgiving Eve of 2005. Since then, we've become adults. We've earned diplomas. We've branched out and started lives separate from each other. One of us went to UMass Amherst to study <strike>journalism</strike> anthropology and Latin American studies. One of us went to Suffolk to study forensic science. One of us went to Assumption to study biology. Since Thanksgiving Eve of 2005, the last Thanksgiving Eve before our high school graduation, we've made ourselves new groups of friends. We've found new people to laugh with, to cry with, to fight with, to hang out with. We've each found new groups of people to be college students with.<br /><br />Each of us has become someone new.<br />Each of us has grown up.<br /><br />There was a time where I couldn't imagine life apart from these two. We had been best friends since 7th grade, and when graduation came around six years later and we were heading off to start our new lives in three completely separate areas of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, it almost seemed like a bad dream. I was quiet. I was socially awkward. People knew me by association with my <em>younger</em> brother. How was I supposed to survive somewhere completely new without them by my side?<br /><br />Well, we're entering the home stretch. Fall '09 finals are right around the corner, and after that comes the last semester of my undergraduate college career. I am proud, ecstatic, and, in all honesty, even a little surprised to say I did it. I survived. I made a new group of friends, some of the best I've ever had. I became involved in a wide varitey of clubs and activities at school, from Class Assembly and CAB to Chapel Choir and START Retreats. I became an a cappella performer and a student leader. I've held officer positions in two organizations for the past two years. I've learned so much about myself since June 2006, and I'm still learning more every day.<br /><br />Maybe I had a bit of a rocky start at the beginning, but I've somehow managed to hold my own for the past four years. I've made it this far with no major issues except for a health/fire safety violation (and subsequent probation) for possession of birthday candles and a couple of weekend nights gone terribly wrong at the hands of Captain Morgan. Even after that quick field trip to the emergency room during gen chem lab in October of freshman year, when I thought for sure I was doomed to be known as "the fainter" until May 2010, I got over it and now look back on it with a good laugh, like I do with all the other bumps in the road I've hit on my way here.<br /><br />Compared to the me of my high school days, I am as much a different person now as I am the same person. There are pieces of me that only my college friends know, not neccessarily because those pieces weren't there in high school, but because I didn't know how to express them. I didn't know what they were yet, didn't know what to do with them. However, I wouldn't know where to even start looking for those pieces if not for the guidance of my high school friends. They were the ones who knew me before I knew myself. They were the ones who saw potential in me where I saw shortcomings. They were the ones who prepared me for the day I would have to leave Boston Latin School and move on to bigger (sort of?) and better things, the ones who brought me to the end of one chapter so that I could start the beginning of a new one. They know where I've been, and I know I'll still be able to find them once I get to wherever it is I'm going.<br /><br />We're an indecisive group; we always have been. After relying on a series of coin tosses to determine our course of action for the night, we find ourselves sitting at the bar in Kinsale. We catch up on each other's lives. Each of us has been well, each of us is enjoying school for the most part. One of us has a boyfriend but doesn't want him touching her unless he finds a way to turn into Rob Pattinson. One of us has recently found interest in a guy who does not appear to have a boyfriend of his own (although she still finds the ones who are boyfriends with each other quite attractive). One has a huge crush on a guy but is putting forth every effort to make sure he doesn't know about it unless, y'know, it happens to come up in casual conversation. We dance around the dreaded topic of "the future," but it finds its way into our reminiscing anyway. And wouldn't you know it, we're all freaking out. This is it, we're about to be shoved further into this place called the Real World that everyone keeps talking about, and none of us seems all too thrilled to have to leave the comfort of this apparent Fake World we've all been living in up until this point.<br /><br />It's scary. It's like June 2006, part II--but this time around, the stakes are higher; the unknown maze up ahead is looking a lot more confusing than the one we faced just four years ago.<br /><br />Just when it looks like the same depressing silence from dinner's failed "future" talk is about to overtake our lovely get-together, Kayti makes an observation:<br /><br />"How great is it to be able to sit at a bar and just talk instead of wandering around Boston for hours with nothing to do and nowhere to go?"<br /><br />She's right. It is great. It's Thanksgiving Eve 2009, and we've finally all reached the age where we can park ourselves at a bar for a few hours, relax, and enjoy a few brews, instead of having "movie" or "shopping" as our only two options. While the Thanksgiving Eves of the past have all been great, this is a first. This is huge, because it's actual proof that we have grown up. We're 21, 22, and 21, so different than the 18-, 18-, and 17-year-olds we were when we left high school but still so the same. We've gone different places, done different things, met new friends, been shaped and transformed into new people, but we can still bring it back to where it all started. We've kept the tradition of Thanksgiving Eve alive from 8th grade to the end of college, even though we've become different people. We'll continue to keep it alive in 2010, 2011, and--dare I say--even 2019. We'll have to adapt to our various new situations and new adventures, but that's what they made things like telephones, Skype, and babysitters for. Somehow, we'll find a way to bring it all back while still allowing ourselves to fly free and do whatever it is each of us has been put on this earth to do.<br /><br />That's not only great. That's beautiful.<br /><br />This year, I'm thankful for my friends, old and new. I'm thankful both for the ones who have watched me grow up over the past four years, and for the ones who got me to the point where I could allow myself to grow up. And, as freaked out as I get when forced to acknowledge "the future," I'm thankful for the new roads that we'll all find in front of us at the end of this year. Each new road is a new opportunity for us to grow up a little more and become new people; another reason for you to call up those friends, both old and new, grab a few beers and celebrate a made-up holiday so you can get to know the new people each of you has become. Because when it comes to growing up, half the fun of arriving at wherever it is you're going is being able to take a trip back to the place you came from.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/Sw-B_l10yLI/AAAAAAAAAF4/QaG_YCS_S4U/s1600/DSCF0965.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408684606984865970" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/Sw-B_l10yLI/AAAAAAAAAF4/QaG_YCS_S4U/s400/DSCF0965.jpg" /></a>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-230901193024179762009-08-17T23:57:00.005-04:002009-08-18T01:21:50.289-04:00i drove.i drove south and east for an hour. just me. i didn't stop until i was there, until it was right in front of me.<br /><br />the sagamore bridge. one of the most easily recognizable symbols of summer in new england.<br /><br />over that bridge, everything melts away and washes out to sea. all you have to do is feel the sand under your toes, the warmth of the sun, the cool ocean water on your skin. all you have to do is smell the freshness of the air and listen to the people laugh. all you have to do is stand on the shore and look out at the vast open horizon in front of you, picture yourself in comparison to the atlantic ocean you're standing in and realize your place in the big picture. over that bridge, everything is right.<br /><br /><br /><br />i live for summer. i wait for it every year from september until june. it's when i'm the happiest, because it's when i feel like i'm really me, like i can break out of my shell and still be okay. i rely on my summers to get me through all the crap in the other three seasons, to give me a reason to think optimistically in a world too often preoccupied with death, destruction, doom, and dismay. i get excited and i get my hopes up; i make big plans for my summers based on the daydreams i have on frigid, gloomy, gray afternoons. and while most of these big plans just continue on as daydreams, enough amazing and wonderful unplanned things usually happen to make up for it.<br /><br /><br /><br />this year, june rolled into boston and brought with it about 23 days' worth of cold, rainy, march-esque weather. maybe that should have been the first clue that this summer wouldn't be like the others.<br /><br /><br /><br />i'm a firm believer that any situation is only as bad as you make it out to be. if you're willing to keep yourself facing forward and to get back up when you fall, everything will work out. but right now, i have 5 days left of summer, and i don't feel okay, not at all, even though i did so much. i grew so much and accomplished so much this summer. but for whatever reason, i'm stuck in this emotional low point and i don't think those 5 days are going to help much because i'm at a loss for what to do to fix it. in fact, i'd like nothing more than to just fast forward through them and get out of this shitty season of disappointment, just so i can start waiting and hoping that next summer will go a little better.<br /><br /><br /><br />i drove all the way to the sagamore bridge, but that was it. i didn't make it over to the other side.<br /><br />instead, i stayed on the west side of the canal and drove a quarter mile down route 6 to the closest dunkin donuts i could find, where i then had the worst-tasting iced coffee i've ever had in my life. it was like it was my punishment for not going where i knew i wanted &amp; needed to go.<br /><br /><br />another day down, 5 to go.<br /><br /><br /><br />good thing i still believe in miracles, because i could use one at this point.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-14596765142330465252009-07-21T22:30:00.002-04:002009-07-21T22:47:52.560-04:00so what if absence makes the heart grow fonder?what good does it do to grow fonder over something or someone who can't be there? the feelings that result from that are usually not the...happiest...in the world.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />kinda a dick move on the part of absence, in my opinion.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-39369289875025336652009-07-20T21:34:00.005-04:002009-07-20T22:24:20.875-04:00writer's block."I know this is probably a stupid statement considering where we are at the moment, but holy sh*t, you look miserable."<br /><div></div><br /><div>"My eyes are itchy and I can't stop sneezing. I think I'm allergic to something back there."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Allergic? Nah, it's probably just your body rejecting Shaw's."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She laughed.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"I'm serious," he said. "Would not surprise me at all. This place sucks."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>There were three carts behind the counter, one filled with brownie cookies and the other filled with ring cakes, all for a table to be set up in the front of the store.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"So wait--you're closing tonight and opening tomorrow? That's f*ckin awful."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"I'm not opening tomorrow. Susan is in at 5 to bake, and I'm in at 7."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Close enough. Honestly, if I was you, I'd be like f*ck this place. I'm not coming in tomorrow. I'm done. Go ahead, say it: F*ck Shaw's!"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She laughs and says it quietly, almost loud enough to be a whisper.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Are you kidding me? That was weak. You gotta say it like you MEAN it!"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>This place drives me crazy sometimes, no doubt about it,</em> she thinks to herself, <em>but most of the time I enjoy it. I work with some fun people. And hell, I have a job. That's more than a lot of people can say these days.</em></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She wheels the carts up to the front of the store to start filling the empty table. It's 6 pm, an absolutely gorgeous summer evening. Customers are still coming in, sun-kissed and smiling after enjoying a weekend in the sun.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>He comes out from inside the produce department, carrying the ugly almost-beige polo shirt in his hand. "I'm outta here, thank God," he says on his way to punch out. He continues his rant on his way out the door, well past the empty carts. "I'm free. I'm off the clock. Now I can say it as loud as I want: F*CK SHAW'S, YOU ARE THE DEVILLLL!"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She looks out after him. The sun is still out, there isn't a cloud in the sky. For a minute, she seriously considers dumping the cart of baked goods right there on the floor and following him out of the store to sweet freedom. Her better judgement eventually pulls through, and she waits the extra hour until her shift is over before leaving.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The next morning, at 7 AM, she slaps some labels on pakages of dessert shells and brings them up to produce, where he's rotating some kind of odd apricot-plum hybrid fruit.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"SO great to be back here, huh??" he says sarcastically.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Haha. Feels like I never even left," she replies. And as she says it, she finds it funny that despite everyone's constant whining about how much they hate it, the same faces always show up the next day, the next week, the next month, year, decade.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>They weren't lying... something about it certainly does have the capability to suck you in. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360733321636796658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/SmUmjbvC2PI/AAAAAAAAAFg/SkXc8Jci8JE/s400/cart.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>picture prompt from Write On Right Now! </em><a href="http://www.writeonrightnow.blogspot.com/"><em>http://www.writeonrightnow.blogspot.com/</em></a></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-27686745722203445092009-07-16T22:56:00.000-04:002009-07-16T22:57:40.888-04:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/Sl_omiEDqgI/AAAAAAAAAFY/D1cYTqANJOc/s1600-h/starry+night.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359257830270675458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZTYEYmSgY6s/Sl_omiEDqgI/AAAAAAAAAFY/D1cYTqANJOc/s400/starry+night.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8605955468075419041.post-31549860990212197292009-07-10T16:19:00.002-04:002009-07-10T16:28:05.513-04:00if only autism could speak.Being in constant severe pain and not being able to tell your parents or doctor what's happening must really suck. The words and the emotions are there, but they can't come out. It's not your fault, it's just the way you were made.<br /><br />Man. Talk about frustrating. I feel for ya, kid...I don't know how you put up with it. If it was me, I'd probably be biting myself and everyone around me too.<br /><br />Hang in there.Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769435996814564520noreply@blogger.com0